WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN was born in | Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1813, and was educated there. In 1831 he received a prize for a poem entitled "Judith." His first volume, "Poland and other Poems," was not successful. He was called to the Scottish bar in 1840, and acquired a reputation for success in criminal cases. In 1845 he became Professor of Rhetoric and Belleslettres in the University of Edinburgh. In 1853 he delivered in London a course of lectures on poetry and the drama. He was originally a liberal in politics, but afterward became a conservative and did a good deal of political writing, for which, in 1852, he was appointed Sheriff and Vice-Admiral of Orkney. He was a voluminous contributor of tales and poetry to "Blackwood's Magazine." His publications in book form were: "Life and Times of Richard I.," 1840; "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers and other Poems," 1849; "Firmilian, a Spasmodic

EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN.

NEWS of battle!-news of battle!

Hark! 't is ringing down the street:
And the archways and the pavement
Bear the clang of hurrying feet.
News of battle! who hath brought it?
News of triumph? Who should bring
Tidings from our noble army,

Greetings from our gallant king?
All last night we watched the beacons
Blazing on the hills afar,
Each one bearing, as it kindled,
Message of the opened war.

All night long the northern streamers
Shot across the trembling sky:
Fearful lights, that never beckon

Save when kings or heroes die.

News of battle! Who hath brought it?
All are thronging to the gate;
"Warder-warder! open quickly!
Man-is this a time to wait?
And the heavy gates are opened:
Then a murmur long and loud,
And a cry of fear and wonder

Bursts from out the bending crowd.
For they see in battered harness

Only one hard-stricken man; And his weary steed is wounded,

And his cheek is pale and wan: Spearless hangs a bloody banner

In his weak and drooping handGod! can that be Randolph Murray, Captain of the city band?

He

Tragedy," 1854; and "Bothwell," 1856. also edited "Scottish Ballads," 1858, and with Theodore Martin published translations from Goethe and wrote the "Bon Gaultier Ballads." Several of these ballads are intended to satirize things American; but their ludicrous betrayals of ignorance of every thing American so far exceed their wit, that readers on this side of the Atlantic can hardly be offended by their spitefulness. He married a daughter of Prof. John Wilson; and it is related that when he asked for her hand, Wilson, without saying a word, tore from a book he was reviewing a fly-leaf which bore the words "with the author's compliments," pinned it to her dress, and led her across the room to her lover.

Aytoun died in Edinburgh, August 4, 1865. His life, by Theodore Martin, was published in 1868. His poems have been republished in New York, in two volumes.

Round him crush the people, crying,
"Tell us all-ob, tell us true!
Where are they who went to battle,
Randolph Murray, sworn to you?
Where are they, our brothers-children?
Have they met the English foe?
Why art thou alone, unfollowed?
Is it weal or is it woe?"
Like a corpse the grisly warrior

Looks from out his helm of steel;
But no word he speaks in answer—
Only with his armèd heel
Chides his weary steed, and onward
Up the city streets they ride;
Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,
Shrieking, praying by his side.
"By the God that made thee, Randolph!
Tell us what mischance hath come."

Then he lifts his riven banner,

And the asker's voice is dumb.

The elders of the city

Have met within their hall

The men whom good King James had charged
To watch the tower and wall.

"Your hands are weak with age," he said,
"Your hearts are stout and true;
So bide ye in the Maiden Town,
While others fight for you.
My trumpet from the Border-side
Shall send a blast so clear,
That all who wait within the gate
That stirring sound may hear.
Or, if it be the will of Heaven
That back I never come,

And if, instead of Scottish shouts,

Ye hear the English drum-
Then let the warning bells ring out,
Then gird you to the fray,

Then man the walls like burghers stout,
And fight while fight you may.
'T were better that in fiery flame
The roofs should thunder down,
Than that the foot of foreign foe
Should trample in the town!"

Then in came Randolph Murray-
His step was slow and weak,
And, as he doffed his dinted helm,
The tears ran down his cheek:
They fell upon his corslet

And on his mailèd hand,
As he gazed around him wistfully,
Leaning sorely on his brand.
And none who then beheld him

But straight were smote with fear,
For a bolder and a sterner man
Had never couched a spear.
They knew so sad a messenger
Some ghastly news must bring;
And all of them were fathers,

And their sons were with the king.

And up then rose the Provost

A brave old man was he,

Of ancient name, and knightly fame,
And chivalrous degree.
He ruled our city like a lord

Who brooked no equal here,
And ever for the townsman's rights
Stood up 'gainst prince and peer.
And he had seen the Scottish host

March from the Borough-muir,
With music-storm and clamorous shout,
And all the din that thunders out
When youth's of victory sure.
But yet a dearer thought had he-
For, with a father's pride,
He saw his last remaining son

Go forth by Randolph's side,
With casque on head and spur on heel,
All keen to do and dare;
And proudly did that gallant boy
Dunedin's banner bear.

Oh! woful now was the old man's look,
And he spake right heavily:
"Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,
However sharp they be!
Woe is written on thy visage,

Death is looking from thy face:
Speak! though it be of overthrow-
It cannot be disgrace!"

Right bitter was the agony

That wrung that soldier proud: Thrice did he strive to answer,

And thrice he groaned aloud. Then he gave the riven banner

To the old man's shaking hand, Saying: "That is all I bring ye From the bravest of the land! Ay! ye may look upon it

It was guarded well and long, By your brothers and your children, By the valiant and the strong.

One by one they fell around it,

As the archers laid them low, Grimly dying, still unconquered,

With their faces to the foe. Ay! ye may well look upon it

There is more than honor there, Else, be sure, I had not brought it From the field of dark despair. Never yet was royal banner

Steeped in such a costly dye; It hath lain upon a bosom

Where no other shrouds shall lie. Sirs! I charge you keep it holy, Keep it as a sacred thing,

For the stain ye see upon it

Was the life-blood of your king!"

Woe, woe, and lamentation!

What a piteous cry was there! Widows, maidens, mothers, children, Shrieking, sobbing in despair!

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Through the streets the death-word rushes,
Spreading terror, sweeping on:
"Jesu Christ! our king has fallen-
O great God, King James is gone!
Holy Mother Mary, shield us,

Thou who erst didst lose thy Son!
O the blackest day for Scotland
That she ever knew before!
O our king-the good, the noble,
Shall we see him never more?
Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!
O our sons, our sons and men!
Surely some have 'scaped the Southron,
Surely some will come again!"
Till the oak that fell last winter

Shall uprear its shattered stem-
Wives and mothers of Dunedin-
Ye may look in vain for them!

But within the Council Chamber
All was silent as the grave,
While the tempest of their sorrow
Shook the bosoms of the brave.
Well indeed might they be shaken

With the weight of such a blow:
He was gone-their prince, their idol,
Whom they loved and worshipped so !
Like a knell of death and judgment
Rung from heaven by angel-hand,
Fell the words of desolation

On the elders of the land.

Hoary heads were bowed and trembling, Withered hands were clasped and wrung: God had left the old and feeble,

He had ta'en away the young.

Then the Provost he uprose,
And his lip was ashen white;
But a flush was on his brow,

And his eye was full of light.
"Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray,
Like a soldier stout and true;
Thou hast done a deed of daring

Had been perilled but by few. For thou hast not shamed to face us, Nor to speak thy ghastly tale, Standing-thou a knight and captain-Here alive within thy mail!

Now, as my God shall judge me,

I hold it braver done,

Than hadst thou tarried in thy place,

And died above my son!

Thou needst not tell it: he is dead.

God help us all this day! But speak-how fought the citizens Within the furious fray! For, by the might of Mary!

'T were something still to tell That no Scottish foot went backward When the Royal Lion fell!"

"No one failed him! He is keeping
Royal state and semblance still;
Knight and noble lie around him,
Cold on Flodden's fatal hill.
Of the brave and gallant-hearted,
Whom ye sent with prayers away,
Not a single man departed

From his Monarch yesterday.
Had you seen them, O my masters!
When the night began to fall,
And the English spearmen gathered
Round the grim and ghastly wall!
As the wolves in winter circle

Round the leaguer on the heath,
So the greedy foe glared upward,

Panting still for blood and death. But a rampart rose before them, Which the boldest dare not scale; Every stone a Scottish body,

Every step a corpse in mail!
And behind it lay our Monarch,
Clenching still his shivered sword:
By his side Montrose and Athole,
At his feet a Southron lord.
All so thick they lay together,

When the stars lit up the sky,
That I knew not who were stricken,
Or who yet remained to die.
Few there were when Surrey halted,
And his wearied host withdrew;
None but dying men around me,

When the English trumpet blew.
Then I stooped and took the banner,
As you see it from his breast,
And I closed our hero's eyelids,
And I left him to his rest.

In the mountains growled the thunder,
As I leaped the woful wall,
And the heavy clouds were settling
Over Flodden, like a pall."

So he ended. And the others
Cared not any answer then:
Sitting silent, dumb with sorrow,

Sitting anguish-struck, like men Who have seen the roaring torrent Sweep their happy homes away, And yet linger by the margin,

Staring wildly on the spray. But, without, the maddening tumult Waxes ever more and more, And the crowd of wailing women Gather round the council-door. Every dusky spire is ringing With a dull and hollow knell, And the Miserere 's singing To the tolling of the bell.

Through the streets the burghers hurry,
Spreading terror as they go;

And the rampart 's thronged with watchers
For the coming of the foe.
From each mountain-top a pillar
Streams into the torpid air,
Bearing token from the Border

That the English host is there.
All without is flight and terror,

All within is woe and fearGod protect thee, Maiden City, For thy latest hour is near!

No! not yet, thou high Dunedin !
Shalt thou totter to thy fall;
Though thy bravest and thy strongest
Are not there to man the wall.
No, not yet! the ancient spirit

Of our fathers hath not gone;
Take it to thee as a buckler

Better far than steel or stone. Oh, remember those who perished For thy birthright at the time When to be a Scot was treason,

And to side with Wallace, crime! Have they not a voice among us,

While their hallowed dust is here? Hear ye not a summons sounding

From each buried warrior's bier? Up!-they say-and keep the freedom Which we won you long ago: Up! and keep your graves unsullied From the insults of the foe! Up! and if ye cannot save them, Come to us in blood and fire: 'Midst the crash of falling turrets, Let the last of Scots expire!

Still the bells are tolling fiercely,
And the cry comes louder in;
Mothers wailing for their children,
Sisters for their slaughtered kin.
All is terror and disorder,

Till the Provost rises up,
Calm, as though he had not tasted
Of the fell and bitter cup.
All so stately from his sorrow,

Rose the old undaunted Chief,
That you had not deemed, to see him,
His was more than common grief.
"Rouse ye, Sirs!" he said; "we may not
Longer mourn for what is done;
If our king be taken from us,
We are left to guard his son.
We have sworn to keep the city

From the foe, whate'er they be,
And the oath that we have taken

Never shall be broke by me.
Death is nearer to us, brethren,
Than it seemed to those who died,
Fighting yesterday at Flodden,

By their lord and master's side.
Let us meet it then in patience,
Not in terror or in fear;
Though our hearts are bleeding yonder,
Let our souls be steadfast here.
Up, and rouse ye! Time is fleeting,
And we yet have much to do;
Up, and haste ye through the city,
Stir the burghers stout and true!

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Gather all our scattered people,

Fling the banner out once moreRandolph Murray! do thou bear it,

As it erst was borne before: Never Scottish heart will leave it,

When they see their Monarch's gore!

"Let them cease that dismal knelling!
It is time enough to ring,
When the fortress-strength of Scotland
Stoops to ruin like its King.
Let the bells be kept for warning,

Not for terror or alarm;

When they next are heard to thunder,

Let each man and stripling arm. Bid the women leave their wailingDo they think that woful strain, From the bloody heaps of Flodden,

Can redeem their dearest slain?
Bid them cease-or rather hasten

To the churches, every one;
There to pray to Mary Mother,
And to her anointed Son,
That the thunderbolt above us
May not fall in ruin yet;
That in fire and blood and rapine
Scotland's glory may not set.
Let them pray-for never women

Stood in need of such a prayer!-
England's yeomen shall not find them
Clinging to the altars there.
No! if we are doomed to perish,
Man and maiden, let us fall.
And a common gulf of ruin

Open wide to whelm us all!
Never shall the ruthless spoiler
Lay his hot insulting hand
On the sisters of our heroes,

While we bear a torch or brand!
Up! and rouse ye, then, my brothers-
But when next ye hear the bell
Sounding forth the sullen summons
That may be our funeral knell,
Once more let us meet together,

Once more see each other's face; Then, like men that need not tremble, Go to our appointed place. God, our Father, will not fail us In that last tremendous hourIf all other bulwarks crumble,

HE will be our strength and tower Though the ramparts rock beneath us And the walls go crashing down, Though the roar of conflagration

Bellow o'er the sinking town-
There is yet one place of shelter,
Where the foeman cannot come,
Where the summons never sounded
Of the trumpet or the drum.
There again we 'll meet our children,
Who on Flodden's trampled sod,
For their king and for their country,
Rendered up their souls to God.
There shall we find rest and refuge,
With our dear departed brave;
And the ashes of the city

Be our universal grave!"

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.

COME hither, Evan Cameron !

Come, stand beside my kneeI hear the river roaring down Toward the wintry sea.

There's shouting on the mountain-side, There's war within the blast

Old faces look upon me,

Old forms go trooping past.
I hear the pibroch wailing
Amid the din of fight,

And my dim spirit wakes again
Upon the verge of night.

'T was I that led the Highland host
Through wild Lochaber's snows,
What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose.

I've told thee how the Southrons fell
Beneath the broad claymore,

And how we smote the Campbell clan
By Inverlochy's shore.

I've told thee how we swept Dundee,
And tamed the Lindsay's pride;
But never have I told thee yet

How the great Marquis died.

A traitor sold him to his foes ;-
Oh deed of deathless shame!
I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet
With one of Assynt's name-
Be it upon the mountain's side,
Or yet within the glen,
Stand he in martial gear alone,

Or backed by armed men-
Face him as thou wouldst face the man
Who wronged thy sire's renown;
Remember of what blood thou art,
And strike the caitiff down!

They brought him to the Watergate,
Hard bound with hempen span,
As though they held a lion there,
And not a fenceless man.
They set him high upon a cart-

The hangman rode below-
They drew his hands behind his back,
And bared his noble brow.

Then, as a hound is slipped from leash,

They cheered the common throng, And blew the note with yell and shout, And bade him pass along.

It would have made a brave man's heart
Grow sad and sick that day,

To watch the keen malignant eyes
Bent down on that array.
There stood the Whig west-country lords
In balcony and bow;

There sat their gaunt and withered dames,
And their daughters all a-row.

And every open window

Was full as full might be

With black-robed Covenanting carles,

That goodly sport to see!

But when he came, though pale and wan,

He looked so great and high,